


Accidental Heroes

by pigeonking



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 14:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10192370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonking/pseuds/pigeonking
Summary: My first and so far only foray into the Supernatural universe...





	

Paul felt certain that his dad would kill him this time. When his father had died three weeks ago from an alcohol induced heart attack Paul had hoped that would be an end to the life of terror and abuse that he had endured since his mum had left them both nearly nine years ago.

After his father’s death he had been taken in by his grandparents (from his mother’s side, they had never abandoned him even when their daughter had). The first week had been fantastic. Paul had almost felt guilty about feeling so ecstatically happy so soon after his father’s passing, but life with his dad had been that bad the sad truth was that his dad dying had been the best thing to ever happen to him in his so far pathetic excuse for a childhood.

Then in the second week his dad had started to visit him at night.

It was always around 11:30 which sort of made sense since that was usually the time his dad had come rolling in from a heavy session of drinking.

The first couple of nights he had just been an oppressive and menacing presence hovering at the bottom of the bed, those dead, drunken eyes boring into Paul as he lay in bed. Paul had drawn the covers over his head and for the most part had been able to pretend that his dead dad wasn’t standing at the bottom of the bed, staring with murderous intent. He hadn’t slept much those first two nights, but no harm had come to him.

That all changed on the third night. On that night Paul had pulled the covers over his head as he had done before, but this time he had felt the covers snatched violently away from him and there his father was, his pale grey twisted visage of hate pressed up right in front of him. His dad’s ghost was standing over him looking down right into his face, but he wasn’t standing beside the bed, but rather in it so that his father’s legs disappeared into the bed around chest level on Paul, as if his dad were standing knee deep in water. The sensation of having his father’s incorporeal phantom legs passed right through his chest was like Paul had suddenly and inexplicably been submerged into freezing icy water. His father had then begun to levitate above him and his spectral fists would lash out at Paul’s upper body, once, twice, then three times… and then he would disappear.

When Paul had lifted his pyjama top he found that his chest and abdomen were painted with harsh blackened purple bruises. It seemed that for his father old habits didn’t just die hard, they didn’t die at all! Even when he was alive he had always ensured that he would beat Paul in places where people wouldn’t see the bruises.

The attacks had come every night since then and Paul received bruise upon bruise never once being given the chance to heal. He wasn’t sure if he could take it anymore. Part of him hoped that his dad would kill him tonight so that he wouldn’t have to endure this ever again. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on concealing it from his grandparents before they found the bruises. One way or another Paul just wanted his living nightmare to end.

Paul glanced over at his Darth Vader digital alarm clock and saw the read out blink from 11:29 to 11:30.

His Yoda nightlight began to flicker almost instantly and despite the fact that he was tucked under his covers Paul suddenly felt very cold indeed.

The first thing he saw were his father’s eyes hovering suspended over him like disembodied orbs and then a greyish white cloud seemed to billow forth from behind the eyes and coalesce into the faintly blurry shape of his dad’s apparition. Paul even fancied that he could smell the distinct odour of liquor on his dead father’s phantom breath. Surely a ghost shouldn’t even be able to breathe? He found himself thinking rather absurdly.

His father’s rictus of a mouth twisted into a sadistic smile, almost as if he had heard what Paul had been thinking.

Then Paul saw the phantom fists raise, ready to strike.

Paul wasn’t sure quite what came over him, but he had had enough! He refused to be afraid anymore. All he felt now was a sense of overwhelming rage at this continued injustice.

“Why are you even here?” he shouted at his father furiously, hot tears streaming down his face. “You’re supposed to be dead! Why can’t you just leave me alone!!!?”

The spirit wavered in mid-air for interminable seconds, its malevolent mask of hatred replaced, albeit briefly, by surprise at this sudden outburst.

For just a moment Paul thought, no, hoped that maybe he had said enough to drive his father’s ghost away once and for all.

But then the slasher smile returned and the fists rose again…

“No!” Paul screamed; his terror had returned like an unwanted guest that was no longer welcome.

Off in the distance, what seemed like a very long way away, he could hear his grandparents banging desperately on the door of his bedroom.

“Are you alright in there, Paul? What’s happening?” grandma’s voice drifted through the closed door.

Try as they might they could not get it open.

Paul knew that this time his dad would kill him for sure.

The fists started to come down.

Then something strange happened.

A ball of flame bloomed like a flower in the centre of his father’s chest. It spread out, engulfing the phantom’s spectral form as if it were made of paper.

The ghost’s eyes widened in horror as it realised what was happening and it screamed a silent scream. In less time than it took to blink the flames had completely consumed and obliterated his father’s ghost. He was finally gone… forever.

All Paul could think as the temperature returned to normal was: Did I do that?

Then the door suddenly burst open and his grandparents all but fell into the room.

“Are you alright, Paul? What happened?” this time his grandfather asked the question.

They were both stunned and surprised to see their grandson sat up in bed looking happier than they had seen him in a good long while.

“I’m okay, grandma and grandpa. I think I just had a really bad dream, but I’ll be alright now, I promise.” Paul assured them both.

“Well, as long as you’re sure.” His grandmother smiled uncertainly. She came over and kissed him on the cheek before tucking him back up into his bed.

After that they left him alone and Paul had the best night’s sleep that he’d had in a very long time.

 

Elsewhere in another part of town two men stood side by side in a cemetery looking down into an open grave. One of the men was taller than the other with longer hair. The shorter man was actually the older of the two. He was holding an empty gasoline can at his side while his younger brother held a container of salt. In the grave there was a skeleton that was rapidly being reduced to ash by the flames that consumed it.

“Well hopefully that puts an end to that son of a bitch once and for all.” Dean Winchester said grimly.

He and his brother Sam had come to this town to investigate a series of murders that they had discovered were being committed by the vengeful ghost of a priest who had died in the town six years ago. The ghost had been killing those it saw as being sinners by inducing heart attacks in its victims.

Its last victim had been the priest’s own brother when he was alive. A no good drunken bastard who had beaten his son and probably deserved to die, but it wasn’t for Sam and Dean to judge the living.

Come to think of it, a thought suddenly occurred to Dean, hadn’t the recently deceased man been buried next to his priest brother in the same cemetery?

Dean took out his torch and shone it on the headstone in front of them. Then he turned the beam on the adjacent headstone. He had to wipe some moss away with his leather clad elbow, but sure enough there it was. Different first names, same last names.

“Um, Sammy?” Dean said sheepishly.

“What is it, Dean?” his brother replied, his contemplation of the smouldering remains interrupted.

“I hate to say this, but I think we might have just burned the wrong son of a bitch.”

**The End**


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